Thrill Me
Page 8
He could have acted like a bastard, she thought, remembering how things had ended. Of course, if he’d still been angry, he would have refused to work with her.
“Challenging my authority?” she asked lightly.
“We’ll see.”
She glanced at her watch. “I need to get to work.” She suggested a day and time for their first official meeting, then stood and walked back toward town.
Partway down the path, she had the urge to turn back. To see if Del was watching her. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw he wasn’t. He’d gone inside.
Foolishness, she told herself. Just like the tingles. If she ignored it, it would go away. At least that was the plan.
* * *
DEL FINISHED HIS COFFEE, then accepted the inevitable and drove to his parents’ house. As he pulled into the long driveway, he braced himself for the inescapable drama. Because this was his family and nothing was ever easy.
He parked and walked toward the front door. The huge rambler looked as it always had—sprawling with a large garden front and back. Beyond the rear yard was the workshop his father used. Two stories of windows in a steel frame, because of the light. Ceallach also had a studio on the far side of town for when he needed to get away.
His father was a famous glass artist. World famous. When he was good, he was the best. But when he drank...
Del tried to shake off the memories, but they were persistent. His father had been sober several years now. He no longer destroyed a year’s worth of work in a single afternoon’s drunken tantrum and left the family desperate and destitute. It was better now. But for Ceallach’s five sons, better had come too late.
A happy bark drew him back to the present. A brown, black and white beagle raced around the side of the house and headed for him. Sophie bayed her pleasure as she rushed at him.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he said, scooping her up and standing. She wriggled in his arms, trying to get closer and give kisses at the same time.
“You probably don’t remember me,” he told the dog. “You’d be this happy to greet a serial killer.”
Sophie gave a doggie grin in agreement. He put her on the ground and followed her to the front door. His mother opened it before he could knock and shook her head.
“You couldn’t shave?”
He chuckled, then hugged her. “Hey, Mom.”
She held on tight, then drew back and shook her head. “Seriously. Would it kill you to use a razor?”
He rubbed his jaw. “Most mothers want to talk grandchildren.”
“That would work for me, too. Come on.” She held open the door.
He stepped into the house and back into the past. Very little had changed. The living room had different sofas, but in the same spot. His father’s glasswork was everywhere, all carefully mounted or secured so Sophie or her wagging tail didn’t do any damage.
Del turned his attention back to his mother. Elaine had met Ceallach Mitchell when she’d been twenty. According to her, it had been love at first sight. His father had never told his side of the story. They’d married four months later and Del had been born a year after that. Four more sons had followed, each about a year apart until the twins.
His mom looked as she always had, with dark, shoulder-length hair and an easy smile. But as he studied her, he saw that there were a few differences. She was older, but it was more than that. She seemed tired, maybe.
“You okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine. I don’t sleep as well as I used to.” She shrugged. “The change.”
He wasn’t sure exactly which change she was referring to, but he wasn’t going there. Rather than take a safe step back and escape, he moved to the sofa. Sophie jumped up next to him and immediately settled in for a nap.
His mother sat across from him. “How long are you in town?”
“The rest of the summer. You said to be home for Dad’s birthday. I came back early.”
“Your father will be pleased.”
Del was less sure about that. Ceallach might be brilliant, but he was also temperamental. In his mind what mattered was art. Everything else was a far second. A lesser kind of living. He had no patience for or interest in mere mortal lives or pursuits.
“You’re here by yourself?” his mother asked.
Del nodded. Last time he’d been home he’d brought Hyacinth. He’d been so sure they were going to make it. But they hadn’t. She’d been unable to promise herself to a single man and he’d been unable to accept the string of what she swore were insignificant lovers that moved in and out of her bed. While he’d loathed the cheating, the dishonesty had been just as bad.
“Traveling light,” he told his mother.
“Del, you need to settle down.”
“I’ve never wanted to settle.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t you want a family?”
“Finally playing the grandkid card?”
She smiled. “Yes. It’s time. Your father and I have been married thirty-five years and yet none of my boys has ever gotten married. Why is that?”
He couldn’t speak for his brothers. He’d been in love twice in his life, first with Maya and then with Hyacinth. Both relationships had ended badly. And the common denominator? Him.
His father strolled into the living room. Ceallach Mitchell was tall and broad-shouldered. Despite being weeks away from turning sixty, he was still strong, with the muscles required to wrestle large pieces of molten glass into submission. Del acknowledged his father’s genius—there was no denying brilliance. But he also knew it came at a price.
“Challenging my authority?” she asked lightly.
“We’ll see.”
She glanced at her watch. “I need to get to work.” She suggested a day and time for their first official meeting, then stood and walked back toward town.
Partway down the path, she had the urge to turn back. To see if Del was watching her. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw he wasn’t. He’d gone inside.
Foolishness, she told herself. Just like the tingles. If she ignored it, it would go away. At least that was the plan.
* * *
DEL FINISHED HIS COFFEE, then accepted the inevitable and drove to his parents’ house. As he pulled into the long driveway, he braced himself for the inescapable drama. Because this was his family and nothing was ever easy.
He parked and walked toward the front door. The huge rambler looked as it always had—sprawling with a large garden front and back. Beyond the rear yard was the workshop his father used. Two stories of windows in a steel frame, because of the light. Ceallach also had a studio on the far side of town for when he needed to get away.
His father was a famous glass artist. World famous. When he was good, he was the best. But when he drank...
Del tried to shake off the memories, but they were persistent. His father had been sober several years now. He no longer destroyed a year’s worth of work in a single afternoon’s drunken tantrum and left the family desperate and destitute. It was better now. But for Ceallach’s five sons, better had come too late.
A happy bark drew him back to the present. A brown, black and white beagle raced around the side of the house and headed for him. Sophie bayed her pleasure as she rushed at him.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he said, scooping her up and standing. She wriggled in his arms, trying to get closer and give kisses at the same time.
“You probably don’t remember me,” he told the dog. “You’d be this happy to greet a serial killer.”
Sophie gave a doggie grin in agreement. He put her on the ground and followed her to the front door. His mother opened it before he could knock and shook her head.
“You couldn’t shave?”
He chuckled, then hugged her. “Hey, Mom.”
She held on tight, then drew back and shook her head. “Seriously. Would it kill you to use a razor?”
He rubbed his jaw. “Most mothers want to talk grandchildren.”
“That would work for me, too. Come on.” She held open the door.
He stepped into the house and back into the past. Very little had changed. The living room had different sofas, but in the same spot. His father’s glasswork was everywhere, all carefully mounted or secured so Sophie or her wagging tail didn’t do any damage.
Del turned his attention back to his mother. Elaine had met Ceallach Mitchell when she’d been twenty. According to her, it had been love at first sight. His father had never told his side of the story. They’d married four months later and Del had been born a year after that. Four more sons had followed, each about a year apart until the twins.
His mom looked as she always had, with dark, shoulder-length hair and an easy smile. But as he studied her, he saw that there were a few differences. She was older, but it was more than that. She seemed tired, maybe.
“You okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine. I don’t sleep as well as I used to.” She shrugged. “The change.”
He wasn’t sure exactly which change she was referring to, but he wasn’t going there. Rather than take a safe step back and escape, he moved to the sofa. Sophie jumped up next to him and immediately settled in for a nap.
His mother sat across from him. “How long are you in town?”
“The rest of the summer. You said to be home for Dad’s birthday. I came back early.”
“Your father will be pleased.”
Del was less sure about that. Ceallach might be brilliant, but he was also temperamental. In his mind what mattered was art. Everything else was a far second. A lesser kind of living. He had no patience for or interest in mere mortal lives or pursuits.
“You’re here by yourself?” his mother asked.
Del nodded. Last time he’d been home he’d brought Hyacinth. He’d been so sure they were going to make it. But they hadn’t. She’d been unable to promise herself to a single man and he’d been unable to accept the string of what she swore were insignificant lovers that moved in and out of her bed. While he’d loathed the cheating, the dishonesty had been just as bad.
“Traveling light,” he told his mother.
“Del, you need to settle down.”
“I’ve never wanted to settle.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t you want a family?”
“Finally playing the grandkid card?”
She smiled. “Yes. It’s time. Your father and I have been married thirty-five years and yet none of my boys has ever gotten married. Why is that?”
He couldn’t speak for his brothers. He’d been in love twice in his life, first with Maya and then with Hyacinth. Both relationships had ended badly. And the common denominator? Him.
His father strolled into the living room. Ceallach Mitchell was tall and broad-shouldered. Despite being weeks away from turning sixty, he was still strong, with the muscles required to wrestle large pieces of molten glass into submission. Del acknowledged his father’s genius—there was no denying brilliance. But he also knew it came at a price.
